Chapter 23 Jackson
Jackson
Against the early-evening sun, the lake is a shimmering cape of a thousand shiny pennies.
Jackson has to squint when he gazes out over the water. It’s so humid, so torrid out; he wishes they were gathered inside, but, same as last year, the annual summer fish fry at the Boat House is being held out on the massive dock.
The ancient wooden posts groan against the deck as waves lick the surface of the lake.
He didn’t want to come tonight. He’d much rather have gone to Sullivan’s, hoping to catch sight of Ethan again. But since he missed all of Charleigh’s calls yesterday, she’s been extra clingy; he knew there was no getting out of this thing.
Sigh.
The Andersens even picked him up in Alexander’s Jeep Wagoneer. He rode in the back seat with Nellie, feeling like her sibling, a child being driven to a dance by his parents.
When he slid into the sumptuous leather seat, Nellie appraised him.
“Nice shirt,” she said, then twisted her frame toward the window, chewing a fingernail, as if she were too cool to say another word.
Normally, he would think she was being a smart-ass with her comment, as was her way, but he could tell she was sincere this time, real respect registering, if not in her tone, at least in her cornflower-blue eyes. He is wearing the latest Tommy Hilfiger, a button-down rugby.
Charleigh passed him an icy wine cooler, peach flavored, which went down like candy.
Studying Nellie’s profile, Jackson felt a pang of pity wash over him.
She looked fine, hair done in a single French braid down her back, tight and rigid bangs hair-sprayed to the heavens, flawless makeup.
Dare he say she looked attractive? But so fidgety.
The nail biting, the sighing, the angst radiating off her like a fragrance.
As he watched her, it hit him: They’re both outcasts.
Now he sits next to her at the wrought iron table, steam rising off their baskets of catfish, skins fried to a golden brown.
Alexander and Charleigh gave Jackson and Nellie the best seats—the ones facing the lake. And while Jackson likes to think this was altruistic, he knows it’s only because Charleigh must have her eyes glued to the front, to the action.
He drags a hush puppy through the cup of tangy tartar sauce. It’s so hot, it scorches his tongue, but then melts in his mouth. Alexander follows suit but grabs two, devouring both at the same time.
The man is six-two, and his appetite is insatiable.
In more ways than one, according to Charleigh.
Jackson’s always liked Alexander. He’s easy to look at, yes, but, so not Jackson’s type.
He’s too clean-cut. Like Charleigh, he’s almost too perfect, gleaming in his crisp white button-down, blond hair trimmed in a preppy style. Frat boy.
He’s chill, though, not stuck-up at all, despite his bottomless wealth, and, ever since Jackson first met him, Alexander has been welcoming.
When the Andersens travel, Alexander will suggest that they invite Jackson.
Just last year, he accompanied them to Paris, visiting the most famous antique showrooms with Charleigh, selecting pieces to be shipped back home.
He suspects that Alexander appreciates Jackson basically being Charleigh’s chaperone because a) he’s male and can ward off other men while—because he’s gay—not being a threat to their marriage and b) because Jackson soaks up so much of Charleigh’s high-maintenance energy.
Jackson shudders to think what Charleigh will be like once Nellie flies the coop. She’ll be completely bonkers; he imagines he really will feel like one of their children then.
The waitress appears with a tray of margaritas on the rocks for the adults and a glass of iced tea for Nellie.
Charleigh licks the salt-crusted rim of hers, before slinging half of it down in one gulp.
She, as ever, is gleaming tonight, in a low-cut white halter top with red shorts, her bronzed skin and toned shoulders on full display.
She lifts her glass again, grins at Jackson.
Then he watches her face contort, her eyes narrow. “Fuck me,” she spits.
Jackson and Nellie both turn their gazes away from the lake, toward the restaurant.
The Chambers—Chip, Monica, and Blair—are spilling out of the dining room onto the deck, looking like some polished Barbie family. At their side are the Swifts. Ethan, and someone Jackson assumes to be the wife, and one of the daughters.
“Mom!” Nellie’s voice sounds discordant, like a piano key out of tune. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Shhh…keep your voice down,” Alexander admonishes her.
Jackson has never liked Monica. Doesn’t really see why Charleigh constantly twists herself into knots to keep up with her.
I mean, he gets it—she is the queen bee—but he can’t stand her.
She always makes him feel like a caricature, the gay man in town.
Her voice gets higher, brighter, more over the top when she addresses him, like when someone screams at a deaf or foreign-born person.
She’s a dead ringer for Morgan Fairchild, and her daughter is her carbon copy. Rich bitches personified.
But his attention is trained on Ethan, who’s dressed much like he was the other night, in a simple button-down Henley. This one is white, dressier, though, and his hair looks freshly shampooed, his honey-colored locks glistening in the dying sunlight.
Jackson’s stomach twirls.
Like Charleigh did, he lifts his cocktail to his lips, slams half of it.
Both families are heading over, Blair’s eyes lasering them, a wicked red-lipped grin slashing her angular face.
Fuck me, Jackson thinks.
“Heeeeey!” Monica trills as they approach the table, looping Ethan’s wife’s arm through her own.
Jackson sizes her up. Humph. She’s okay, but rather plain, if you ask him.
Dressed in a floral-patterned dress—homemade, by the looks of it—as Charleigh warned him about.
Unlike the other ladies at the Boat House, her hair is devoid of any product, but rather than looking natural, it just looks sad and lifeless.
She has a nice rack, though, he’ll give her that, but otherwise, she’s very ordinary, the kind of blank-canvas beauty that certain men are attracted to, the kind that can be molded into anything they want.
“Well, hey, Andersens!” Monica is clearly already soused, her sky-blue eyes bloodshot and swimming. “I wanted to introduce you to the Swifts! Though Abigail here has told me y’all’ve already met.” She all but sneers at Charleigh.
Ever the gentleman, Alexander rises, pumps Ethan’s hand. “Alexander Andersen, pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well. Ethan Swift.”
Jackson can’t pry his eyes off Ethan, but so far, Ethan hasn’t even glanced his way.
Monica plants a claw on Ethan’s shoulder, a possessive gesture. “Ethan here is a master carpenter. He’s building Chip a custom desk for the home office!” She lowers her voice to a whisper, cups a flat palm against her lips, like she’s telling us a secret. “Costs five grand!”
Chip, who has his back turned to us, is busy checking out all the ladies on the deck, seemingly oblivious to Monica’s chatter.
Charleigh’s face has turned scarlet; she looks as though her skin is on fire.
“Amazing!” Alexander offers.
“And this is Abigail, his wife!” Monica gives her a nudge, as if she’s presenting a show pony.
“I’ve already had the pleasure. Good to see you again, though,” Charleigh manages to say through clenched teeth.
It just lasts a second—and Jackson’s pretty sure he’s the only one who clocks this—but he catches Alexander’s eyes flick over Abigail’s chest, sees them crimp into a smile.
“Charleigh here tells me that y’all live out on some land?” Alexander asks.
Abigail giggles nervously, schoolgirlish. “Yeah, over off Seven Pines Road. We like it out there. Like to live off the land, grow our own food—”
Charleigh snorts into her glass.
If Abigail notices, she doesn’t show it, her dewy face still brimming with that schoolgirl smile.
“I myself like the land, too. My family, my ancestors, have a real nice piece out in Kilgore. Lots of woods. But we don’t get out there all that much anymore, do we, babe?”
Charleigh places her drink down, skewers Alexander with her cold glance, obviously for being cordial to the enemy. “Nope. This is about as outdoorsy as I like to get.” A dark laugh slithers out of her.
“And this is?” Alexander asks, motioning to the girl. No doubt trying to steer the conversation back to calmer waters.
“I’m Jane. Jane Swift.” She beams at each of them. Now it’s Blair’s turn to sneer at Nellie, flaunting Jane in front of her.
A flash of anger zings through Jackson; he feels oddly protective over Nellie.
He peers at Jane. There’s an elegance there that she clearly gets from her father. Same golden hair, same easy grin. Same copper-colored skin. A true natural beauty doesn’t need a lick of makeup, though she wears it, her cat-green eyes rimmed with black eyeliner.
“Skank,” Nellie says, under her breath, but loud enough for them all to hear.
Jackson squirms. Damn, that Nellie can be horrid. But also, the girl can handle herself.
Alexander’s face reddens, and he clears his throat. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter here—” He shoots Nellie a withering stare.
But again, Abigail pastes on her wholesome smile, as if she didn’t just hear Nellie calling her daughter a slut. “Well,” she says, shaking her limp hair around her shoulders. “And you must be Nellie,” she says, still wearing the same sunny grin, though her tone has an undercurrent to it.
Nellie just stares her down.
Then Ethan steps forward, smiles at Jackson.
Jackson’s pulse ricochets. Is he about to out him in front of Charleigh, make it known that they’ve met before?
“I’m Ethan. And you are?” His caramel eyes dance over Jackson. Knowing.
“Jackson. Jackson Ford.” He takes Ethan’s outstretched hand and squeeze-shakes it, wanting never to let go.
“Oh, forgive me!” Monica bubbles, this time draping her arm around Ethan’s neck. “I forgot all about you!”
Bitch. And also, bitch, get your hands off him. He’s my crush.
“This is Jackson Ford.” She draws out the Ford, making Jackson sound like some kind of big deal, even though he knows she’s just being sarcastic. “The local decorator.”
Cunt.
“And my best friend,” Charleigh says, snaking her hand across the table to clasp Jackson’s.
Touché.
Jackson’s eyes veer back toward Ethan, who is openly staring at him. A sly grin tugs at the corner of his lips, and Jackson’s insides melt. After a second, Ethan hitches his chin toward the restaurant. A signal to Jackson.
“Excuse me, please. I’m in need of the men’s room.” Ethan pivots away.
Jackson drains the rest of his drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. After what he hopes is an inconspicuous amount of time, he pushes his chair from the table. “Nature’s calling me, too. Be right back.”